walk like a thief
by breeshell
Summary: a series of ficlets of their relationship.


**Title:** you walk like a thief  
**Summary**: A series of shorts of the two, at various points in their lives, during and after the movie  
**Rating**: R - warning of sexuality and drug use.  
**Spoiler:**Nothing really, just stuff from the movie  
**disclaimer:** I don't own anything, not the songs, not the characters.

* * *

.**possibility**.

_So tell me when you hear my heart stop _

_You're the only one that knows _

_Tell me when you hear my silence _

_There's a possibility I wouldn't know_

In a disguise Holmes follows Watson through the darken streets of London. From his new home, down to the Punchbowl and back. During the fights Holmes stood in the back, hiding behind his hat, keeping his head down, collar up. Watson left out the front and he ducked out the back. There's no harm in just making sure a friend is doing well, is there?

Quietly down the cobble streets, passed the post-lamps, down an alley where a prostitute sweet-talks a customer.

On this street, this new lane where Watson and Mary have a home, Watson stops and cocks his head slightly to the right. He knows the sound of the Holmes's steps. In the quietness of this night he can hear every breath, every pause and sigh. He thinks of turning to say something, but decides against it. He lets him think that he's been sneaky.

Holmes holds his breath until Watson has made it inside.

*

.**maps**.

_wait, they don't love you like I love you wait, _

_they don't love you like I love you maps. _

_wait they don't love you like I love you_

Watson lays on his side, in a lovely drug induced slumber. His shoulder is burned, his head a bit rattled, but nothing severe. Holmes doubles checks the chart to be sure, who knows what kind of personal this facility has?

Mary catches him off guard and he makes a run for it. He's not surprised that she sees through his disguise; she wasn't the one meant to be fooled. "I know you care for him," she says. Her eyes are welded up, but she doesn't cry, she has a good head on her shoulders. So good in fact that she knows,

He keeps his head down as he turns to walk away. "Solve this," she calls after him.

*

.**here with me**.

_i didn't hear you leave _

_i wonder how am i still here _

_and i don't want to move a thing, it might change my memory_

He's always done as he pleased, came and went, did crazy things in his quarters. But ever since Watson left, he's kept to himself, barely leaves his room (iour roomi) unless it's needed. He accepts cases through the mail, easy ones that don't require much thought.

He eats, he drinks, Mrs. Hudson tries to clean up but he snaps at her, unjustly so, one day when she tries to fold an old flannel robe that's been carelessly left over his chair. "Not that." He snatches it from her and grips it.

"I worry about you," she says and picks up the tea tray.

He politely nods at her but keeps quiet. The robe goes back on the chair.

*

.**hang**.

_he smokes his cigarette, he stays outside 'till it's gone _

_if anybody ever had a heart, he wouldn't be alone he knows, _

_she's been here too few years, to be gone_

He observes his study, lamenting over pieces of scrap paper, of books and piecing of clothing that he's managed to stow away while the movers came. Watson had watched diligently at every box. Mary was in and out, she got the leash for the dog, folded a coat over her arm. "Whenever you're ready, dear," she said and kissed his cheek.

An awkward silence and a handshake, a quick hug and he was gone. Holmes has been sitting almost still since in that chair, puffing his pipe, going through all that Watson left behind. Mrs. Hudson knocks on the door announcing tea. She gets no answer and leaves. He hears the cups shaking against each other as she walks away.

He exhales smoke.

*

.**fallen embers**.

_Once, when our hearts were singing,_  
_i was with you_

Once, Holmes was sure, years later of course, long after Mary had passed away, long after Irene finally left him for good, taking the child with her, he and Watson had been in love. Not the way he loved Irene, not the way that Watson loved Mary. No absence stung him like Watson's, taking the life that they had built together, away.

Slowly he plucks the strings of his lonely violin, just barely tasting the memory of better times.

*

.**broken**.

_i wanted you to know i love the way you laugh _

_i wanna hold you high and steal your pain away _

_i keep your photograph, i know it serves me well_

_ i wanna hold you high and steal your pain_

While unpacking, Mary stumbles upon a box not marked. On top is a rumpled shirt, not John's. She removes it and finds a stack of newspaper clippings, all meant, not doubt, to one day be put together in a book. John and Sherlock are in each of them, though Sherlock's face is normally covered. Only one, she finds are both their faces in perfect view.

Tenderly she touches the paper, tracing over the faces. She hears John approaching and places everything back in the box. He comes in and kisses her temple. "I can do this on my own," he tells her, moving a different box to the desk.

She smiles. "Of course. I'll be in the parlor." When she leaves he goes to the box she'd been looking through and pulls out the shirt. A heavy sigh as he folds it neatly.

*

.**happiness is a warm gun**.

_i need a fix because i'm going down _

_down to the bits that i left uptown _

_i need a fix because i'm going down_

Holmes injects himself with his special mix of seven-per-cent liquid cocaine just before going out. It makes the streets glossy, but he doesn't need sight to know where he's going.

The nights are lonely the days dull and too bright now that his dear Watson is gone.

In a back alley, far from the prying eyes of the law and good decent folk, he leans against a dirty wall, gritty and moist from a recent rain but he ignores it all. He pays the prostitute a pretty penny. She undoes his belt, and gets down on her knees.

* * *

song credits:

possibility - lykke li

maps - yeah yeah yeahs

here with me - dido

hang - matchbox twenty

fallen embers - enya

broken - seether

happiness is a warm gun - the beatles


End file.
